The Girl Who Danced on Glass
by WildRedPoppies
Summary: He watched as she disappeared into the grey mist. He didn't know her name. He had never even seen her face. All he had, was the slipper in his hand. "Cinderella" retold in 18th century Venice. Age of Edward 2012 Judges' Choice.


**Age of Edward Contest**

**Pen name: WildRedPoppies**

**Title: The Girl Who Danced on Glass**

**Type of Edward: 18th Century Venetian nobleman Antonio**

**Category: Young Adult**

**Beta: The wonderful happymelt**

**_The historical setting of this story is largely accurate though details may have been altered to fit the plot. Acts of gross anachronism were committed knowingly and wilfully against two historical characters in particular._**

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><p><strong>The Girl Who Danced on Glass<strong>

_Seven glorious, perfect days. It had been a beautiful dream. She turned back to look at me just once, her eyes pleading with me to forgive her before she disappeared into the grey mist of dawn. I don't know her name, or what she looks like under the mask._

_I clutch the delicate slipper in my hand. The cut glass beads shimmer in the candlelight. It is all I have left of her._

:::::::::::::_  
><em>

"I'm not sure I understand." The Priora was perplexed by the request made by the richly-dressed noblewoman seated across from her. "Here at Ospedale della Pietà, we accept a few select fee–paying students for music lessons—"

"Priora," the noblewoman interrupted. "You take in orphans." She pointed at one of the two children clinging to each other in the corner of the room. "This girl is an orphan. She can sing. She'll be an asset to your choir. I will of course provide a generous donation..."

"The child is not an orphan. You're her mother—"

"_Step–_mother. The child is not mine. She belonged to my husband who passed recently. I have two daughters of my own. After the _incident_, I find that I can no longer manage her."

"You misunderstand, Signora Cigni." The nun was firm. "We take in abandoned _infants, _foundlings. Some of them are orphans. Others belong to courtesans or poor parents who cannot afford to feed them. Some of our charges descended from the most illustrious families in Venice but are born out of wedlock. We take them in regardless. But, _never_, Signora, have we received a request such as this!"

The noblewoman busied herself smoothing down her gown. When she spoke again, her voice was soft. "Priora, no one else in Venice will have her. If you do not take the child, I may be forced to send her to an insane asylum in Padua. After what she has done to my poor Giuseppa, one cannot expect more of me."

The Priora recoiled in horror. _Send a young child to an asylum?_ Yet, from the set of Signora Cigni's face, she knew the threat was not an idle one.

"And what, Signora Cigni, exactly in the nature of this _incident_?"

"The girl has been allowed to run wild by her father. She has an excitable imagination and makes up lies and schemes. She accused my sweet Laura of striking her and incited my other daughter Giuseppa to defend her. _This_, is the result."

She pulled forward the younger child who had a livid red wound running down the side of her face.

"My poor Giuseppa! She will forever be marked! Who will marry her now?"

The Priora pursed her lips.

She beckoned the other girl to come near. "What is your name, child?" she asked in a kindly voice.

"Isabella." The girl was small for her age, with dark curls and rosy cheeks. Her eyes were wet, but her chin was defiant. _This one has spirit_, the Priora thought.

"And how old are you?"

"Seven."

"Will you sing a little tune for me, Isabella?"

Isabella's voice was muffled by her tears, but her tone was pure and sweet.

_The child has talent_, the Priora mulled._ The routine and regiment at the Pietà may help temper her passions and excitable nature._ _Besides, the asylum is no place for a child. _

She made a decision. "Isabella, here at the Pietà, there will be no fighting. Do you understand?" The Priora turned to the noblewoman and said sternly, "These are exceptional circumstances. We will take her, in exchange for your absolute discretion."

"Of course." The woman stood up as if to leave and hesitated. "Will she...will she be branded? Like the rest of the foundlings here?"

"Good heavens! Of course not!" The nun's face blanched. "We only brand our infants on the heel so we can find them if they are stolen from us. Isabella is far too old for that." The nun was shocked by the malice on the woman's face. If she had doubts about taking in the child before, they vanished along with any sympathy for the widow.

The children cried for each other as they were separated.

:::::::::::::

Like the rest of the congregation in the Pietà chapel, Antonio's face was lifted towards the heavens. And like the rest of the congregation, he had come not just to worship his Creator but also to hear the heavenly music He inspired.

"_A solis ortu usque ad occasum..."_

The sweet voice, pristine and piercing in its clarity, brought the hairs on the back of his neck to attention.

He looked around him. The church was filled with both Venetian locals, like himself, as well as tourists—rich young men from all over Europe on the Grand Tour. _La Serenissima_, the Most Serene Republic of Venice, had long been regarded as the preeminent stop on the Tour. The city was as celebrated for her cultural gems, like the Pietà's all–female choir, as she was for her notorious brothels. Indeed, Antonio mused to himself with a wry smile, many of the young men presently listening to sacred music sung by the virgin choir had likely spent the previous evening in the arms of the most infamous courtesans in Europe.

"_Excelsus super omnes gentes Dominus..."_

Antonio lifted his eyes to the gallery once more, wishing he could see the creature who was producing this divine sound. The Pietà's young musicians, the _figlie di coro_, performed behind metal grilles in galleries high above the worshippers. If one was very lucky, one might catch a glimpse of a small white hand or spy a flash of the red gowns the girls wore as uniforms.

Antonio sighed. The_ figlie_ led a cloistered existence, the mystery only enhancing their fame. Only the very elite among them were allowed out to perform at private events for the noblemen who paid a small fortune for the privilege. Even then, they were chaperoned and closely watched to uphold the reputation of the institution. He wondered if he would get a chance to meet the young soprano.

"_A-men..."_

The voice flitted and darted, lithe and sure as a spring bird. Antonio held his breath, his stomach tightening as the voice soared and swooped. It was a youthful voice; fearless in its innocence and almost giddy in its virtuosity.

The last note seemed to shimmer in the air before drifting down onto the stunned congregation.

Not permitted to applaud inside the chapel, the enraptured audience proclaimed their adoration in an explosion of coughing, stomping, and shuffling.

:::::::::::::

The maestra was not pleased with her performance. "We sing, Isabella, for the glory of our Lord, not to draw attention to ourselves. Remember that. Vittoria shall take your solo next Sunday."

Don Vivaldi, the composer, was only a little more complimentary. "I wrote this piece to show off the agility of your voice." He paced in front of her, pulling absently at his wiry, red hair, his wig long abandoned. "Technically, you were flawless. You are eager, but you sing with your head. Where's the heart? Where's the passion?"

"What do I know about the heart," Isabella replied, "when my life is nothing but prayers and practice?" She lifted her eyes to the sky beyond the barred window. "I sing from a cage."

"We each have our own cage, Isabella." His quiet tone made her look at him closely for the first time. He was the only priest she knew without a parish, one who spent more time in a music room than a church.

Unsettled by her stare, Vivaldi picked up a score and spoke with an air of finality. "We must find our freedom where we can."

He could not have known how she would take his words to heart.

:::::::::::::

_I see her immediately, a slight figure in a curiously antiquated dress and an exquisite half–mask, wandering around Piazza San Marco alone. All around her, the Carnevale is in its full debauched, chaotic glory—acrobats performing for a quick coin; fortune tellers ready to tell you what you want to hear; the strangest animals from exotic lands seen for the first time in Europe. Under their masks, patricians, peasants, prostitutes, and nuns mingle freely and behave badly. _

_She stands alone, observing them, her fascination shining through, in spite of her mask. A tourist perhaps? But who would let their daughter wander out unchaperoned in a foreign city at its most licentious?_

_I have decided it is none of my business and am about to turn away when a little girl in rags approaches her. The child is obviously in distress, with tears running down her dirty cheeks. The woman kneels down at once to comfort her. _

_It would be a touching scene but for the older boy, his clothes in a similar state of disrepair, sneaking up to the woman from behind. _

_I hurry over. _

_The boy reaches into the folds of her dress and removes a purse from her pocket with so much deftness I almost admire his skill. He should be halfway down the alley by now, but he is standing stock still, head peeking out from behind a pillar, the purse still clutched in his small fist. _

_The young woman is crooning softly to the little girl. I recognise the song, a lullaby sung to me as a child. It's a simple tune, but the tender way she sings under her breath brings to mind innocent pleasures—the softest, warmest feather bed, safety in a mother's arms. _

_Her little audience of three—the girl, the little pickpocket, and I—are spellbound._

_The song ends, and I am next to her in an instant._

"_What are you doing to the poor child?" The young woman cries. She is rather displeased with me. I can see why. I have the little rat by his collar, and he is snivelling most pathetically. The little girl is in real distress now. Upon closer inspection, I can discern that the two are brother and sister. I wonder how many tourists have been duped by their double act._

"_Signorina," I relieve the boy of the purse. "I believe this belongs to you?"_

"_Oh!" She thanks me with a grateful smile before turning to the child. "You naughty boy! Why are you out at this time of the night? What would your papa say?"_

"_I don't have one," the boy replies. This is uttered with such indifference I have no doubt he is telling the truth. _

"_And your mama?" I put him down but keep a firm grip on his shirt._

_"She falls asleep on the table after drinking wine and forgets about us."_

"_We have no food in the house," the little girl chirps. Apart from being dirty and clothed in rags, both children look thin and hungry._

_I remind myself to send a donation to the ospedali. Venice needs these charitable institutions. At least the foundlings there have enough to eat and learn a useful trade until they are old enough to make a living. _

_I hand the boy a few coins. Upon further thought, I give the girl some, as well. "Go buy food for yourselves. And make sure your mama doesn't spend it on drink." _

_Their eyes widen. "Thank you, Signore!" The boy grabs his sister's hand and runs away. _

"_That was a very kind thing you did, Signore." She looks at me with such feeling in her bright eyes that I would gladly have given up the entire contents of my purse to the next beggar who comes along . _

_Her accent is Venetian. She must have sneaked out of her parents' house without their knowledge. I elect not to pry. After all, this is why we wear masks during the Carnevale—for the freedom to be someone or no one at all. With a mask on, she is not a young girl disobeying her parents, and I am not Antonio Volturi, son of one of the oldest patrician families in Venice. _

"_Is this your first Carnevale?" I've already guessed the answer to that question._

_She hesitates, then nods. _

_I can't possibly allow her to wander around Venice alone. It's clear she doesn't have much money on her—her purse felt light when I handled it. _

_She is a little lamb in a city prowling with wolves. _

"_In that case, Signorina, allow me the privilege of showing you around." _

:::::::::::::

Every foundling at the Pietà lived for the same dream_—_to one day be claimed by the mother who left her there.

A token was often left by the mother, tucked into the clothes of an abandoned babe. This was usually half an object: a medallion, a painting, or a piece of fabric. The other portion was kept by the mother, for the day when she would come back for her child and be called upon to prove her identity. The fragment left at the Pietà was a whispered hope, an unspoken promise.

Many of the tokens never found their matching halves.

Isabella was under no such illusion. She knew she had no one_—_or so she believed until she was called to the Priora's office.

Isabella was no stranger to the office. Very little had changed since she was brought there for the first time ten years ago. It still smelled of old books and lavender. The neat stacks of registers and papers documenting the institution's various concerns—from the weaving and embroidery workshops in Venice, to the country farms that fed its charges—sat in their usual places. She was well–acquainted with every scratch on the immaculately–tidy desk; she had often counted them when she was being admonished.

This time, however, the Priora was sympathetic rather than stern. "You have a godmother, who lived in France until recently. I'm sorry to tell you that she is dying and has returned to Venice to spend her last days. She has requested to see you. You will go with Sister Angela as a chaperon."

Isabella didn't know whether to feel elated or sad.

:::::::::::::

_She is a conundrum, a contradiction in every way. Her dresses are from another era, but they are well–made from fine material. Her sensibilities are delicate, and her manners proper, but she does not possess the polish of one who has been in society. She is educated but more innocent and unworldly than any seventeen–year–old I know. Her accent is Venetian, and yet she has never experienced the Carnevale. _

_I can only guess that she has overzealous guardians who have been extremely vigilant in the company she is allowed to keep. Perhaps this is not unwise, given the fallen Eden Venice has allowed herself to become. Or else she has been placed in a convent and brought up by nuns. _

_She is a mystery, one I intend to solve. _

:::::::::::::

Her godmother, Esmeralda, lay in her bed, the masses of pillows and blankets only serving to highlight her frailty of her body. Isabella took in her large eyes and her finely-boned features. _She must have been beautiful once_, she thought.

"I wrote you letters, Isabella, but never received a reply. Now I know that your stepmother never forwarded them." Isabella was not surprised.

"Come closer, and let me look at you." Esmeralda put her thin, cold hand on her cheek. "You look like your father, but you have your mother's nose and the set of her chin."

"Did you know my mother well?"

Esmeralda smiled at her eagerness. "Yes, very well."

"Please, Signora, tell me everything." She sat on the bed and forgot to be awkward.

:::::::::::::

Esmeralda forgot about her disease_–_ravaged body when she talked about Isabella's mother.

"Your mother was not just beautiful; she had so much joy. She sang like an angel, and danced so gracefully. You should see her during the _Carnevale_! She wore the most exquisite masks, donned the most sublime costumes...people would stop in the streets and wonder if she was a vision..."

She turned to Isabella, her eyes still shining with old memories. "Your father gave me her dresses when she passed. He couldn't bear to have them in the house, and you were just a baby then. Would you like to have them back?"

:::::::::::::

_My little companion wears no jewelry or adornments, so I buy her a little bouquet when I take her to the opera. She is absurdly pleased by this and pins the largest flower to her bosom._

_At the opera, she wants to sit in the pit to be closer to the stage so that she can see the performers better. I steer her firmly into my private box. She huffs at this and calls me names._

"_You are a Philistine and a boor who despises music!" _

"_I love music!" I laugh at her. "How could I not when Venice boasts of the finest choirs in Europe? Just last Sunday, I heard the loveliest music in the Pietà..." I am about to describe to her the angelic singing by the new soloist when she gasps at the sight before her. _

_Spittle, apple parings, and orange peel rain down from the private boxes into the pit. Some land on the members of the audience, who brush the debris off their clothes with nonchalance. _

"_How could they..." She is mortified. She cranes her neck around desperately to see if it is a prank or some especially uncouth person committing a faux pas. I assure her this is common practice and that these "favors" are bestowed upon those in the pit without prejudice; they fall on prince and pauper alike. _

_The performance begins. She is indignant that the theatergoers play cards, flirt, and gossip loudly while the singers are on stage. _

"_I could never concentrate on singing if my audience were so...so disrespectful!" _

"_Then you should sing at the Pietà. The congregation there is so respectful they are not even permitted to applaud the musicians." _

_She grows a little pink at this, and I worry that I might have offended her somehow. _

_Fortunately, the prima donna struts onto the stage and begins her aria with great aplomb. My companion leans forward and watches her with rapt attention._

_I have never seen anyone devour the opera with so much relish. She sighs when the lovers serenade each other, gasps when the villain separates them, then tears and clutches at her heart as the heroine sings her dying words. _

_Through her, I see everything anew. I see the colors of the magnificent sets, hear the swish of the sumptuous costumes. I feel the lovers' grief in the richness of their song and long for them to be reunited. _

_When it is over, the audience applaud heartily and shower the stage with flowers and notes. Still sniffing, my companion plucks the flower from her bosom, kisses it, and tosses it onto the stage. I hand her a handkerchief to dry her eyes and laugh when she dabs at her cheeks, forgetting in the moment that she is wearing a mask. _

_I must bring her to the opera again._

:::::::::::::

The moment Isabella put on her mother's old mask, she understood its power.

_Freedom._

It gave her the courage to carry out the rest of her plan. She had already donned one of her mother's old dresses. The night portinara in charge of the gate had been bribed with the money her godmother gave her as a parting gift. She was sick and tired of watching the _Carnevale_ fireworks from her barred window. _We must find our freedom where we can_, Don Vivaldi had said. She would find hers.

The portinara had a final word of warning.

"Make sure you get back before the first light. I will be relieved by the next portinara when day breaks and will no longer be able to help you. If you are found out, your singing days will be over and you will be packed off to a convent in the countryside for the rest of your life."

The portinara looked at Isabella's wide eyes and shook her head.

"Even if you choose not to go to the convent, you have no money and no family. You know very well what happens to women without protection in Venice.

"You wouldn't last a week."

:::::::::::::

_Every Venetian woman I know is a mistress in the art of coquetry. They are experts in using their fans, their smiles and their words, to snare a husband or a lover, or to give a man the illusion that he might have a chance at being either. These tricks have been practiced on me, the Volturi heir, so often they no longer have any effect. _

_My little companion is different. She does not carry a fan. Something tells me she would not know how to use it. She says what she thinks and will only hold her tongue in order to spare a friend pain. She has no concept of exercising her charms to gain admiration or to beguile a man into buying her a necklace. _

_She is bewitching without effort. When she laughs, it is with her entire being. Even with her mask on, her lively eyes demand that you share her mirth. I find myself foolishly trying to make her giggle, like a jester._

_She is delighted by everything, and I am delighted by her delight. _

:::::::::::::

Isabella wasn't quite sure what had made her take note of him at first. It certainly wasn't his clothes, for he was dressed in the most common _bauta_ disguise—a black tricorn hat, a white mask that covered his entire face, a black mantle and cloak.

It was the fact that he was so very still when everyone and everything around him in Piazza San Marco was in rapid motion. From a distance, she could not even tell whether he was young or old, rich or poor. She only knew that he was tall and held himself very straight.

The _Carnevale_ called to its revelers like lovers, seducing them with her abandon, her decadence, her promises of pleasure and anonymity. Yet, he had stood apart from it all, utterly unmoved and weary somehow.

She stared at him until she felt his gaze on her. Only then did she turn away hastily.

:::::::::::::

Despite her protests that she didn't know how to gamble and had no money to lose, Isabella's new friend brought her to the _Ridotto_. "It's an essential part of the _Carnevale_ experience," he said with a grin.

Although the gambling hall was located near the Piazza San Marco, it was a world away from the frenetic bustle of the square. The gaming rooms, crowded with white masks that seemed to float disembodied in the dim candlelight, were cloaked with a heavy air of intrigue. Around the gaming tables, the silence was suffocating, the focus intense. Isabella watched Antonio play. Like the rest of the players, he remained stoically quiet whether he won or lost. It was the Venetian way, he told her, for great fortunes to change hands and families to be ruined at the gaming table without a single utterance of pleasure or pain from the player.

He taught her the simplest game, _basetta,_ which she learnt quickly. As her luck changed and she struggled to contain her emotions, he had to resist teasing her. When she was confident enough to play on her own, he gave her a small sum and went to procure refreshments.

To Antonio's surprise, when he came back, he found that she had not only doubled his money but was closely flanked by a man he recognised only too well despite his mask. It was clear she was taking the stranger's advice, with great profit. The gentleman in question was uncommonly tall and muscular with a swarthy complexion, and wore his clothes with much pride. _He wears too much lace_ was Antonio's opinion. When the man smiled at _his_ friend, his grin was wide and wolfish.

"Signore," Antonio greeted him stiffly. "How very kind of you to look after my friend while I'm gone."

The man backed down quickly, with surprising grace. "Signorina, I hope we meet again." He winked at Isabella and left.

"You should stay away from strange men."

"Oh, are you not so strange then? I should remind you that I still don't know your name."

Antonio blustered. "We _agreed_, my friend, not to reveal our identities to each other. If I remember correctly, this was done at your insistence. Nevertheless, stay away from strange men, especially _that _one."

"Did you recognise him?" Isabella was astonished.

"Of course! And I have it on good authority that he is soon to be arrested."

"Whatever for? He seemed perfectly pleasant to me."

"That is the problem, he is much _too_ pleasant to ladies. He will soon be arrested for heresy by the authorities. Now, that wouldn't be such a big issue if he hadn't made enemies of those in power by seducing all of their wives..." He raised his eyebrows. "Most of their mistresses..." Isabella's jaw dropped. Antonio paused for effect before continuing."...as well as some of their daughters."

:::::::::::::

He brought her to the theatre to see a comedy and amused her before it started by pointing out the various people he recognised in spite of their masks.

"Over _here_ is the British Consul Joseph Smith. He has a wonderful eye for art. In _that_ box there, we have his young friend and confidant, Andrea Memmo. The Memmos are one of the oldest patrician families in Venice, very influential. This young lady _here_ flirting up a storm with every man in her party is the half_–_English beauty, Giustiniana Wynne." Despite the mask obscuring most of her face, Isabella could tell that Giustiniana was appealing to the opposite sex; her dress was molded to her exquisite form; men clustered around her in the small space and laughed as she gestured animatedly.

"Now, my friend, can you guess the relationship between Andrea and Giustiniana?"

Isabella pondered the question. Andrea was glaring at Giustiniana's party, while Giustiniana held court in her box like a queen, glancing this way and that, but pointedly never in Andrea's direction.

She understood at once. "They are in love."

"Excellent! Andrea and Giustiniana are madly in love and seeing each other in secret. The whole of Venice knows this, of course, except for her mother."

"Why the secrecy?" Isabella thought the clandestine love affair very romantic.

"Both families oppose the match. The Memmos are very distinguished, but no longer as rich as they used to be. They need their heir to marry someone with a substantial dowry. Giustiniana is beautiful and charming but has little dowry and no social standing." He shook his head in sympathy. "Her mother is practical. Further entanglement with Andrea would only ruin her daughter's chances of a good marriage."

"I still think it's romantic," Isabella said in a small, defiant voice. A soloist at the Pietà like her had three options: She could get married, become a nun, or if she was deemed good enough, continue to perform until she retired into a _maestra_ position teaching music to the younger girls at the Pietà. The Pietà provided its charges with a dowry when they married. It would be a modest amount, she knew, not enough to be an enticement on its own.

"Marriage is not about love or romance, my sweet girl," he said gently. "At least not among the patricians. It's strictly business."

"How could you live your whole life with a person you don't love? I don't think I could bear it."

"Ah, but that's what lovers are for! Look around you. Most of the married women here are not with their husbands. It's common practice for noblewomen to have a _ciscisbeo_, an official _companion_, written into their marriage contracts."

"Would you allow your wife her _ciscisbeo_?" Isabella could not believe what she was hearing. Could marriage vows be taken so lightly?

He shrugged. "I am expected to tolerate him, if discretion is exercised. She, in turn, will expect me to be discreet about my lovers."

He broke his gaze and turned to his attention back to the stage. After a moment, he continued in a quiet voice, "My family is in secret negotiations for me to be married to a wealthy merchant's daughter. They will provide a large dowry, and our family name will bring them prestige. It's a good match, or so my mother tells me. I have never met the girl, but I should be very surprised if she doesn't have a ciscisbeo."

For the first time in their friendship, a heavy silence fell between them. The comedy began, and though the entire theatre was roaring with merriment, neither could find the heart to laugh.

:::::::::::::

_Ever since I've told her about my impending engagement to Gaetana Denalli, things haven't been the same. She is quiet, subdued, and no longer laughs so easily. I have so little time with her left. I'm determined that our last days together should be happy, so I take her to the opera again. _

_Halfway through the overture, she turns to me suddenly. _

"_I should like to see your face."_

"_Then I will unmask for you." I reach behind my head to untie my mask, but she stops me. _

"_No, my friend. If you reveal yourself, then I shall feel obliged to do the same, and I cannot risk exposing my identity." _

_The truth is, I long to see her face. I want to have her features in my mind when I remember the things she said, or how she sparkled with mirth. The very thought that I may not see her again cuts me to the bone. _

_I pull her out of her seat. "I have an idea. Come with me." _

_I bring her to the back of our box and draw the curtains, screening us from the rest of the audience. She is bewildered when I snuff out all the candles but one. _

"_Do you trust me?" I ask. _

_She smiles sweetly and teases me by shaking her head. _

_I pick up her hand and put out the last candle. The box is now almost completely dark except for the thin sliver of light between the gap in the curtains. _

"_Don't lose me." I tell her as I place her hand on my chest. I undo my mask and lay it carefully on the table beside me. _

"_Now, Signorina, put your hands on my face. You may not see me with your eyes, but you can make out my features with your fingers. _

_Her hands are cool and gentle. They glance lightly from my chest up to my neck. When they finally arrive at the bare skin of my jaw, she freezes. _

"_Please, Signorina, carry on." _

_She glides one hand up my jaw and cups my cheek. I lean into it to encourage her. From there, she traces my eyebrows, my closed eyes, and the bridge of my nose, growing bolder with every touch. When I let out a puff of air to tease her fingertips, she giggles. _

_I've missed that wonderful sound. _

_She follows the outline of my lips once, twice. _

_I can bear it no longer. I cover her small, fragile hand with mine and kiss her fingers, her palm, her wrist. Her pulse flutters, like the wings of a small bird. _

"_May I do the same?" I have already stepped closer to her. The folds of her gown rustle against my legs. _

_Her answer is a whisper. _

_I place her hand on my chest once more. My hand runs down her hand, along her arm._

_Her neck and most of her shoulders are bare. _

_I am taking liberties I ought not to, but I can no longer help myself. _

_The skin on her neck feels soft as the petals of a rose. I yearn to know its taste. _

_Her body rises and falls with each breath, and I can smell nothing but the scent of her hair. Is this how it would be if I had her under me? _

_My fingers caress her ear before I finally untie her mask and place it next to mine. _

_I draw her in so that she is pressed against me. Her face is tilted up towards mine, and I can feel the tickle of her breath on my neck. _

_I sweep every inch of her face with my fingertips and commit it to memory. The arch of her brow. The curl of her lashes. The warm curve of her cheek. The sweet upturn of her nose. _

_I save her mouth for last. _

_Her mouth. Dear Lord. Her mouth._

_I'm a foolish, foolish man. I have placed before myself a glass of the finest wine. Its rich color tempts me; its sweet scent haunts me, and yet, it is not mine to taste. _

_My thumb presses into her lips, already softly parted. _

_My hand is no longer steady. _

_I would have given everything I possess just to kiss her. _

_I release her instead._

_I give her her mask. My hands tremble as I put on my own. _

_I can no longer deny the truth—I am in love with a woman whose face I have never seen. _

:::::::::::::

They had agreed that that night, their seventh evening together, would be their last. She was fast running out of coins to bribe the portinara with. Also, after spending every night in the _Ridotto_, the theatres, or the coffeehouses, she was not getting enough rest, and her work in the choir was suffering. It was time for her to wake up from the dream and devote herself to her duties and responsibilities.

_He didn't kiss me at the opera_, she thought. The memories burned her skin in the places his fingers had touched.

She made the final adjustments to her dress.

_He wanted to, but he didn't._

She slipped into her shoes.

_He will be married soon._

She put on her mask.

_I shall look beautiful tonight. I shall make sure he never forgets me._

She was ready.

:::::::::::::

The hushed whispers echoed throughout the ballroom behind fluttering fans and cupped hands. The words might have been different, but the question was the same.

_Who is she?_

Who was that girl monopolizing the attentions of the handsome Antonio Volturi, heir of the illustrious and prodigiously wealthy Volturi family?

As soon as she swept into the ballroom, all eyes were on her. Her gown was made of brilliant white silk, intricately embroidered with a feather pattern which swept from the waist down towards the back of the dress. It was split at the chest and the skirt to reveal tiny rows of delicate lace ruffles covering the bodice and the petticoat. The same ruffles decorated the cuffs of her sleeves, which finished at the elbow. Her half_–_mask was embellished with crystals and pearls, with an elegant point at the nose to suggest a beak and a plume of white feathers at the crown. It was as if a swan princess had transformed herself into a beautiful maiden to dance the night away at the ball.

On her feet were the most exquisite slippers, narrow with a pointed toe, covered with white silk and encrusted with the clearest Murano glass crystals. Each time she took a step, the slipper peeped out from under her gown and sparkled in the candlelight.

Her escort stayed by her side all evening, glaring at any man bold or foolish enough to approach his companion before sweeping her into yet another _furlana_ on the dance floor.

Such attentiveness from an eligible bachelor caused much comment and jealousy amongst the ladies, and it was with the greatest satisfaction that they watched her stumble and fall. The threads in her shoe, worn with age, had torn as she spun.

Antonio caught her neatly before she could hurt herself and helped her from the ballroom, far away from its hostile revelers.

:::::::::::::

_I set her down on the settee in the first empty room I find. _

"_Are you hurt, my love? Do you feel pain in your ankle? Shall I fetch a doctor?" I am calling her endearments now, but it's our last evening together, and I can call her anything I damn well please. _

_It was my fault that she fell. Dancing is the only way I can hold her close to me and music the only means of forgetting the sorrows that lie ahead. _

_I kept her dancing because I cannot bear to let her go. _

_She is so beautiful tonight, an exotic creature from another world. A little bird, exquisite and rare, yet so small and fragile one could easily crush it with one hand. _

_Away from the bustle of the crowded ballroom, she is quiet. She sits serenely, hands folded on her lap. Determined. Sad, but determined. _

_She looks at me with her serious brown eyes, and I cannot meet her gaze. _

_I attend to her foot instead. I remove her slipper, turn her ankle very gently, and ask if she feels any pain. She assures me that all is well, and I am left with my own morose thoughts once more._

_Will I pass her on the street and not know it is her?_

_I grasp her foot in my hands; the finely–boned ankle; the delicate arch; the outline of her small toes under the fine silk of her stockings. _

_I stare at it and words come to me, unbidden. Words that can be thought, but never said. I love you. I love every part of you, from your sweet little foot to the face that I have only ever caressed in the dark. _

_I am weak and weary. Still on my knees, I bend to touch my lips to her foot. I rest my heavy head on her lap and wrap my arms around her waist. How much time have we left? One hour? Two? _

"_If I were free to choose..." _

"_Say no more, I beg of you!" She doubles over to hold me and puts her face next to mine. Her tears run under my mask and mingle with my own. _

"_Dear Lord," I pray. "Keep the sun from rising so that I may hold my love forever." All too soon, I open my eyes and see the first ray of dawn through the window. _

_My prayers have not been answered. _

:::::::::::::

They clung to each other until they were interrupted by the entry of an amorous, giddy couple, clearly drunk. Antonio and Isabella separated in an instant, hastily wiping off tears and straightening their masks and clothes. The couple giggled and disappeared to find another quiet spot to sneak kisses.

Antonio gathered himself. "Your slipper is torn, Signorina. I will see if I can find a servant to sew it back so that you may walk home in them." He felt a pang of grief as he said this. He didn't want her to leave, but it was the right thing to do.

"Thank you, Signore." She noticed that he had reverted from 'my love' to 'Signorina'. Had he not realize how deeply he had cut her?

Antonio bowed stiffly and left with the shoe.

Left alone, she sat up straight and tried to compose herself. It was no good. The pain she felt was so acute she hugged both arms around her middle. She squeezed her eyes shut and let out a silent, devastated sob. She wanted to _scream_. She wanted to fall on her knees and _beg_ him to run away with her.

But of course, she would do no such thing. She would return to the Pietà and sing; he would be a good son and get married to that wealthy merchant's daughter. Life would go on as it had.

She opened her eyes and noticed for the first time that the room was no longer as dark as it had been.

First light! She would be discovered if she didn't get back soon!

She ran to the door and looked down the hallway. Antonio was long gone, and there was no time to find him.

She would have to leave without saying goodbye. _Perhaps it was better this way, _she thought_.  
><em>

She took off her remaining slipper, picked up her skirts, and ran.

She had just left the building when she heard someone shout "Signorina!". She spun around and looked up—it was Antonio calling to her from the window.

_Forgive me for leaving this way, _her eyes said.

_I will never forget you. _

And then she was gone.

:::::::::::::

_I clutch the delicate slipper in my hand. The cut glass beads shimmer in the candlelight. It is all I have left of her._

:::::::::::::

"Are you quite sure that you're well?" She was looking so wan that even the normally stern maestra was concerned about her.

"I'm well enough to sing in the chorus." The maestra was not convinced but did not press further.

Isabella was determined to perform today. She had already spent the last Sunday crying in bed. A bad headache, she had told them. She did not feel confident enough for a solo, but she needed to be _here_.

She moved closer to the edge of the gallery which held the Pietà musicians and touched the iron grille.

The frigid metal burned her hand.

_My little cage_, she thought. It kept her in, but it also protected her from the things of outside world.

_Things like, heartache. _

_S_omething in her contracted painfully as she thought about _him_. She looked down at the congregation filtering into the chapel below.

_He might be here. He talks about the music at the Pietà often._

She stepped back from the grille. When the service began, she poured her broken heart into song.

:::::::::::::

_The new soprano is still not back after missing two Sundays. I would have been grateful for the distraction. Marriage negotiations with the Denallis are progressing well, though they do not defer to our family name as much as my mother would have liked. 'Upstarts', she calls them. If the dowry hadn't been so generous, she would have called them something worse. _

_Ever since she has left me at the ball, I have been searching every face in the crowded squares, hoping to find her brown eyes. _

_I haven't been to the opera in a week. There is too much of her there. _

_Even now, as I sit in the chapel, l find myself looking at the unmasked faces of the young women around me, trying to match the features I see to the ones that my fingers have touched. _

_I close my eyes and let the music put its balm on my wounds. _

:::::::::::::

Isabella forced a smile on her face as she mingled with the guests at the Ca' Morosini. The Morosinis were an old, distinguished family and important patrons of the Pietà. The _figlie di coro_ had been invited to perform at their lavish palazzo for a private gathering of their friends and family. They had been given the strictest instructions, direct from the Priora herself, to be on their best behaviour. Sister Angela had told them, only half-jokingly, that they should smile if they wanted new instruments.

A young woman stood in front of her, waiting to be acknowledged. She was small and slim, with dark hair and eyes. She would have been unremarkable if not for the red scar that ran from the side of her forehead to her cheekbone.

_Giuseppa._

Isabella gasped. Giuseppa smiled and pulled her into a quiet corner to embrace her.

"When they took you away at the Pietà, I thought I would never see you again!"

"Giuseppa! Sister!" Isabella started to tear but remembered something. "Your mother, is she...is she here?"

"No, I came with friends. I managed to wrangle an invitation from the Morosinis when I heard that you would be performing here. You're becoming quite a star!"

"I do nothing all day but sing." Isabella dismissed her compliments with a wave. "Tell me Giuseppa, how are you?"

"Not married." Giuseppa shrugged. "It gets very difficult if you don't have an enormous dowry. Laura is prettier, but even she is not getting any good offers. You can imagine how much worse it is for me." She pointed at her scar. "Mama has given up on me." Isabella started to protest but Giuseppa cut her off. "Oh how I envy you! You have a talent and a vocation—you don't need to get married."

"It's a very narrow life I lead, Giuseppa." The sisters grew silent, each contemplating her own fate.

She was soon summoned to be introduced to the other guests, and Giuseppa promised to attend her next performance if she could.

As the party wore on, she found herself drifting towards the balcony. Her masked friend was on her mind again, and she craved solitude. She was admiring the view of the canal when she heard a noise behind her. A man had just climbed onto the balcony from below with surprising agility for someone of his stature. The angry shouts and hasty footsteps from the streets below indicated that the intruder was being pursued.

The man was tall and muscular with dark skin and a prominent, hooked nose. For all his masculine physique, he was swathed in fine clothes and a profusion of lace. The new arrival started upon realising that he was not alone, but when he saw that it was a young woman, and a pretty one at that, he immediately relaxed and broke into a flirtatious, wide smile.

"It's you!" she blurted out. It was the man from the _Ridotto_ whose advice had won her many games of cards—the very same that her friend had warned her would get arrested soon.

"Are we acquainted, Signorina?" He frowned. "I have an excellent memory and certainly would not have forgotten such a beautiful face."

"I was masked. You helped me win at the _Ridotto, _until my friend came back. He knew you."

"Ah yes! I remember now!" The shouting from the street increased in intensity and more footsteps were heard. "Signorina, since we are friends, would you kindly do me a favor and not tell anyone I'm here?"

"I have a condition." Her heart was pounding; she had never blackmailed anyone before. "Tell me the name of the man I was with."

His eyebrows raised in surprise before he chortled.

"His name is Antonio Volturi." He gave her a moment to absorb the information before continuing. "I am Giacomo Casanova," he swept into a bow. "I'm pleased to have been of service to you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have an appointment with the authorities that I am most eager _not_ to keep." With that, he melted into the party as if he were one of the guests, only breaking into a run once he had left the main room.

:::::::::::::

"_Two? She wants two?" _

_I shouldn't have been surprised that Gaetana, or Tania, as her parents like to call her, is spoiled. I've been warned that her parents indulge her and that she likes to have her own way. But wanting to include the names of two ciscisbei in the marriage contract is simply absurd. The reason, I've been told, is that she loves them both and does not want to distress either one by leaving him out of the contract._

_What about me? Is she not concerned that I, her future husband, might be distressed? _

_The Denallis are most apologetic and have thrown more money at my mother. She is already planning to build a new summer house. _

_My mind drifts to her, as usual. Would she demand anything? No, of course not. She wants to marry for love, not that her parents would ever allow it. They will likely marry her off to some rich, old merchant willing to overlook her lack of a dowry. He will not appreciate her quickness, her wit, her sweetness. He will not love her as I do. He will paw her and force himself on her on their wedding night. _

_The very idea of another man on her twists the knife that is already in my heart. I have hurt for so long. _

_"Call it off." _

_"Call what off, son?"My mother is always in a good mood nowadays. The thought of money makes her merry._

_ "The marriage negotiations. Call it off. I cannot marry Gaetana Denalli. I'm in love with someone else." _

_"Then marry Gaetana and take this girl as a lover." _

_"No. I want to marry her." _

_"Who is this girl? Who is her family?" _

_"She is nobody and has no dowry to speak of." _

_My mother is growing frantic. She is realizing that I'm serious. _

_"What about our family name? What about your responsibilities to the family fortune? Have you no heart?" _

_"Yes, Mother, what of my heart? You will have me marry a woman who despises me, one who has no intention of staying true to our vows. In the meantime, I am expected to sneak around with the woman who loves me. My children with her will not bear my name, nor have any claim to the fortune I helped build. Yes, Mother, what of my heart?" _

_Even as these shocking words tumble out of my mouth, I recognize their truth. _

_"How dare you speak to me that way! Carlo! Discipline your son!" _

_My father is a great statesman and has done much in the service of our Republic, but at home, he is feeble and under the thumb of my mother. Nevertheless, he is still the head of the house and my only hope. _

_"Father, I have always obeyed your wishes. I have served the interests of the family before my own in all things, but I cannot spend the rest of my life without the woman I love." _

_My father examines me carefully and then turns to look at his wife. I cannot imagine what he is thinking as he continues to gaze at her impassively. _

_Finally, he turns back to me. _

_"Very well. When can we see this girl?"_

:::::::::::::

Her face flushed with hope, Isabella gathered herself and asked a servant at Ca'Morosini for a quill and paper. With trembling hands, she wrote a letter to Antonio. She identified herself by relating a few details of their time together and told him that she missed him. Leaving matters as she did, she wrote, was a mistake, and even if he was still getting married, even if she could not have his love, she still wanted his friendship. She didn't leave a name or an address but told him to entrust the messenger with his reply. She found Giuseppa.

"Isabella, what is the matter? You looked flushed!"

"Never mind that Giuseppa, do you know Antonio Volturi is?"

"Yes, of course. The family is very prominent."

"Will you pass him this note? It is very important that you deliver it to him yourself."

Giuseppa looked into the fevered eyes of her sister and could not refuse.

Now all Isabella could do was wait.

:::::::::::::

The young footman bore the gilded casket with great pomp and ceremony as if it contained the Doge's crown. He basked in the attention as he held the casket in full view when he was travelling in the gondola. He deliberately walked through busy squares and the larger streets when small alleyways would have been faster. Complete strangers who recognised the Volturi livery he wore and saw the casket he carried, would often stop him on the streets.

"Is it true?" they asked in hushed whispers. "Is Antonio Volturi really marrying the first girl who fits this slipper?" At this point, he would correct them with great condescension.

"Of course not," he would sniff. "The young master is seeking a very specific girl. She must not only fit the shoe, she must also have brown eyes and brown hair and be able to prove her identity by meeting with him."

He also informed them that because the original shoe was so precious to his master, and in such a fragile state, ten exact silk replicas had been made by the finest shoemaker in the city, to be sent all over Venice to find the girl. His eager audience always begged to see the shoe, and he always obliged them after pretending to mull over the matter with great deliberation.

"This silk replica," he said, "is not a patch on the original." He went on to describe to his wide_–_eyed audience a magnificent glass slipper which shone with the light of a thousand chandeliers, one so delicate that only the daintiest and most elegant of feet may fit into it. Then, he would shut the casket with a great flourish and, more often than not, collect a coin or two for his pains.

The true nature of his job was decidedly less glamorous. In some of the households he visited, older ladies demanded to try the shoe even though his instructions specified "a young lady under twenty". Some had bunions, corns, and all manner of hideous protrusions. Others tried to force their feet in even after it was clear that three toes had already taken up all the room. This was not including all the occasions where he saw ladies with previously light hair emerge with freshly brown hair to try the shoe. The worst was, of course, _smelly feet_. Still, the whole of Venice was in uproar, and he relished being in the center of it.

His next destination was the Pietà. He had often heard their heavenly music during the Sunday service and wondered what the girls looked like behind the famous metal grille.

_Virgins_, he thought. He would soon be surrounded by a whole roomful of virgins who had never spoken to a man. He adjusted his breeches and quickened his step.

:::::::::::::

"We've found her!" The footman was gasping for breath, his wig in complete disarray. "She sends you this!"

Antonio rose slowly from his chair. His expression was placid as he reached for the letter. Only the trembling of the folded paper as he grasped the missive in his fingers betrayed his emotions.

:::::::::::::

The young bride seemed extremely nervous as she walked down the aisle of the chapel. The guests were sympathetic. After all, she was marrying into the Volturi family, and everyone knew that her very_–_soon_–_to_–_be mother_–_in_–_law could be, to put it kindly, rather _difficult_. It was also rumoured that she didn't have a ciscisbeo written into her marriage contract. _No ciscisbeo!_ The married women shook their heads. Antonio Volturi was handsome, but the young bride would regret her oversight soon enough. Most of all, the guests felt sorry that, despite the careful arrangement of her hair, the bride's red scar could still be seen through the veil.

Sister Angela breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the bride from a corner of the chapel. She had turned away the Volturi footman who had come with the slipper for the girls to try on. She had disliked him on sight. He was a pompous little man, and much too _eager_ for the task. Visitors were not allowed inside the Pietà, she explained, much less a male one who insisted on being in such close proximity to the girls. Besides, she told him, the girls were not allowed out. There was simply no way Antonio Volturi could have met any of them apart from the musicians that he had already been introduced to at the private events. And none of those girls matched the description. She had turned him away firmly and only doubted her decision much later. It didn't matter now, the bride had been found.

_I have finally found her_, Antonio thought as his bride made her way towards him. His favourite soprano was singing her sweet music. He had been pleasantly surprised to hear that she had volunteered, or rather, insisted upon singing at his wedding. The _figlie di coro_ were usually not allowed to be present at weddings, but she had been given special permission because she was related to the bride. _My poor love_, he thought. _How her mother must have oppressed her_. He had not been allowed to speak to his bride throughout the wedding preparations; everything had been arranged through her dragon of a mother. He had felt uneasy about this, only to be assured by her letter which revealed details of their time together, details that only she could have known.

Still, he could not shake the sense of disquiet that had been weighing on him. Even the soprano's voice, which usually soothed him, did not make things better. Something was nagging at the back of his head, the memory of another voice, singing to a child in a busy square...

The guests were shocked when, just as they were about to meet at the altar, the bride and the groom pulled to one side of the aisle at the same moment and began to confer in earnest. They were even more shocked when the groom announced he and the bride had decided by mutual agreement to cancel the wedding.

But perhaps most shocking of all, was the sight of the groom taking off at top speed through the door which led to the stairs up to the gallery.

:::::::::::::

_I run up the stairs and arrive in the gallery where figlie di coro perform. The girls are shrieking and scattering before me. I realize only too late that I still haven't a clue what she looks like. _

_I needn't have worried. Only one girl is standing still, looking at me. Only one girl has tears streaming down her face. _

_I know her. I know her eyes, her mouth, those hands. She is more lovely than I can imagine. _

"_It's you," I say, like an imbecile. She is standing too far away. I take a cautious step forward. _

_She looks perplexed and cries even harder. _

"_I thought she was you," I say by the way of explanation. "Giuseppa confessed everything. Her mother intercepted the letter you wrote me and forced her to impersonate you by threatening the convent." _

_Still not a word from her. I take another step. _

"_I've been such a fool." My time is running out. I can hear angry footsteps coming up the stairs. _

"_What about the letter you wrote me?" she finally speaks. "The one where you said your duty is to your family and that they wish you to marry Giuseppa and take her dowry?"_

"_I wrote no such letter. And she brought no dowry. I scoured the city to find you. I begged every family in Venice to let their daughter try on your shoe. If I had known you were here, I would have torn this place apart stone by stone until I found you." _

"_You would have married me, even with the scar?" _

"_Of course. And no dowry." Another step. "I realize that this is not the most opportune moment..." I edge closer. "...to tell you that I love you." _

"_Signor Volturi!" The Sisters have arrived and they are furious. "This is a restricted area! I strongly urge you to leave immediately!" _

_One of them addresses her, "Isabella, why are you still standing there? Leave at once!"_

_Isabella. Her name is Isabella. _

"_Just a moment, please, Sister." I surge forward and take her hand, prompting more outraged gasps from the nuns. The hope in her eyes gives me hope. I drop onto one knee. "Isabella, you would make me the happiest man in Venice, if you consent to be my wife." _

_I think one of the nuns may have fainted. _

:::::::::::::

He had not planned on scandalizing the ecclesiastical community at the Pietà, but when she said "Yes" and got onto her knees to be closer to him, Antonio forgot himself.

She looked up at him, cheeks still wet, eyes shining like the first day he saw her—so utterly beautiful, and so utterly his, that he cradled her face with his hands and kissed her.

Only the increasingly loud throat-clearing of the Priora separated them.

Later, when asked to prove her identity as the girl at the ball, Isabella slipped easily into the glass slipper. Reaching into her pocket, she produced its mate and stood up gracefully in the beautiful shoes.

"The tokens match," Sister Angela whispered to the Priora.

"Indeed," the Priora replied. "One of our foundlings has been claimed."

:::::::::::::_ The End_ :::::::::::::

* * *

><p><strong>AN:**

If I could, I would toss ten thousand roses at the feet of the splendid **happymelt**. She is the Priora of this story, and she oversees it with benevolence and wisdom. I couldn't have done this without her uncannily clairvoyant insights and her encouragement.

I am not quite sure how I ended up with this Jane Eyre-Twilight-Cinderella hybrid monster but the main inspiration for this OS is the true story of the relationship between Andrea Memmo and Giustiniana Wynne as detailed in the book "A Venetian Affair" by Memmo's descendant Andrea di Robilant.

The lovers' embrace at the ball was shamelessly pilfered from a similiar scene in Martin Scorsese's "Age of Innocence" (1993).

When Antonio first heard Isabella sing at the Pietà, the piece performed was "Laudate Pueri Dominum" (RV601), one of the 3 settings Vivaldi composed to Psalm 112. The first line quoted "A solis ortu usque" translates to "From the rising of the sun". This is a tiny, hidden bit of foreshadowing for how the sunrise would later affect their relationship in the story.

Anachronism – Vivaldi died in 1741 while Casanova was arrested in 1755 at age 30. They could not have existed within the same time-frame as they did in the story.

Giacomo Casanova's first name translates to "James" or "Jacob". I found that childishly amusing.

* * *

><p><strong>Many thanks to everyone who voted for this story in the 2012 Age of Edward contest. <strong>


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